


The Hale and the Fury

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Series: Stark Raving Were [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Avengers - Freeform, BAMF Laura, BAMF Talia, Crack, Doombots, Established Relationship, Flagrant disregard for goverment agencies, Fluff, Fusion, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, No really Doombots Everywhere, Sassy Cora, Sexually Liberated Talia Hale, Stiles is getting sick of all the Doombots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles should have known better than to look forward to brunch in New York. Everything always went wrong in New York. He hadn't quite expected Laura and Derek to get kidnapped by S.H.I.E.L.D, though. </p><p>A story of young love, Doombots, and storming the castle. Helicarrier. Whatever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sanhaim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanhaim/gifts).



> A big thank you goes out to San, Shay, Ivy, and everyone else in the Sterek Campaign Chatzy for being the best human beings ever. 
> 
> Please feel free to let me know what you'd like to see in this series, and do feel free to visit on tumblr [here](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/).

            It was a nice enough day in New York when the Doombots attacked. It was _always_ a nice enough day in New York when the Doombots attacked. Honestly, Stiles was surprised that the morning weatherman didn’t just announce ‘Cloudy with a Chance of Doombot’ when it was clearly a thing.

            At first, the tendency toward city-wide disaster had been somewhat alarming, though not entirely as terrifying as it could have been. He’d spent the better part of his high school career sealing five separate Ancient Evils into their respective trees, talismans, and tupperware containers. It had still been a shock to see his first real alien smack against and slide down his dorm window.

            After several months in the city, he should have looked at the bright blue sky overhead and said, “Hey, Derek, I know your mom is in town and all, but do you think we could just...order in?”

            He was beginning to wonder if the food service industry in this town had mandatory disaster training, because otherwise there was no way in _hell_ anyone was making enough to sign up as a delivery guy.

            He’d wheedled a bit about how poor he was and how little he wanted to puzzle out a menu written entirely in French. Judging by the look on Derek’s face, one did not simply ask Talia Hale to meet them at McDonald’s.

            The restaurant itself was quaint, and the hostess was friendly, even with one member of their party in what were potentially the rattiest pair of jeans known to man. Talia took one look at him, shook her head, and smiled at the paint stains riddled here and there. She’d called him her ‘little starving artist’, even though he was an Anthropological Sciences Major.

            Laura rolled her eyes and told him that he smelled like acrylic paint and lubricant, and Cora laughed until her mother swatted her upside the head. The entire time, Derek’s hand remained firmly on his knee, squeezing periodically while the Hale women alternated between intimidating and teasing as one might change from left foot to right.

            Stiles didn’t mind.

            It was nice to have sisters, no matter how Derek claimed otherwise, and it was nice to bask in Talia’s attention now and then, even if it did make him a bit of a kiss-ass. (Let it never be said that the Hale clan was not in possession of the _nicest_ set of asses seen by man.)

            Overall, it was shaping up to be a wonderful afternoon, filled with great food and laughter, until a Doombot crashed into the awning. Stiles tossed his fork down, the clatter of metal on porcelain nothing against the roaring and crashing from all around them.

            “Again!” He snapped, and Talia _blinked_ at him before looking at Derek.

            “This is normal?”

            “Well, no, we’re not usually right in the middle of it.”

            “There’s still alien juice on my window.”

            “Not helping.”

            “It’s puce.”

            Cora kicked him under the table, and Stiles jolted. The waitress was busy huddling for cover with the rest of the terrace patrons, and it was doubtful the staff would be too concerned with today’s profit margin in the face of the abrupt robot attack, but Talia left enough to cover the meal and a generous tip as she stood from her chair.

            Once the rest of them were on their feet, she began coolly listing instructions, “The hotel is our closest bet. We’ll need to take a less-traveled route. Stiles, Cora, I’m sure your professors will understand if you need to stay the night. Laura--” She broke off, staring at where her two remaining children should have been.

            “Uh…” Cora shifted guiltily, and Talia rubbed at her temples. “So there’s that?”

            Stiles snorted, “So we’re going after them, right?”

            “Oh, absolutely.”

            In a split second, Talia launched herself over the terrace railing and planted a foot squarely in the chest of the nearest Doombot before storming down the streets of New York. Cora and Stiles jogged to catch up.

  


\------

 

            The good news is that they find Derek and Laura a few blocks away. The bad news is that they’ve been surrounded by a bunch of paramilitary types and are, apparently, about to be tranquilized.

            From the look on Laura’s face, Stiles kind of hopes for their sakes that they’ve got some elephant-grade nappy-time drugs. Otherwise everyone’s going home with a brand new asshole. It hits him after a moment that, no, Laura and Derek getting blow-darted into oblivion is a seriously bad thing. He moves to step closer and Talia presses a hand to his chest, shaking her head.

            “It won’t do them any good for us to get shot, too.” Cora whispers, as if the mob of troops is going to be suddenly distracted from the roaring she-wolf in their midst.

            “We did you a _favor,_ dickwad! We’re not _going_ anywhere!” Laura is baring her fangs, but thankfully otherwise human in appearance. Maybe they’ll just think she’s a really aggressive body mod fan or something.

            Or maybe they’ll haul them away into sterile plastic tents and run countless human experiments and turn this entire mess into a global expose on werewolves which really _cannot possibly end well._

            Stiles is having mildly traumatic ET flashbacks, and he’s not entirely certain he’ll be able to pedal a bicycle with the combined weight of two fully-grown Hales in the basket. Honestly, he’d just rather they hadn’t gone charging into the thick of open season on the streets of Manhattan.

            Derek is a few steps behind Laura, hands above his head as if he is completely accustomed to having a high volume of guns aimed at himself and his family on the regular. His expression is one of open concern as he shouts over his sister, “Look! I can guarantee that if you shoot her, she’ll only get angrier! I have spent the last twenty three years with her. Can’t we just talk this out?”

            And that’s about when the first of three darts nails him in the shoulder.

            Two more are quick to follow, and Derek is out cold. Laura takes four more before she’s down for the count. Talia’s lip is white where she presses it between blunt human teeth, but she makes no move to intervene.

            “S.H.I.E.L.D.” She says.

            His boyfriend and older sister have been kidnapped by the superhero squad.

 

\------

 

            By the time they make it onto the Helicarrier, Talia has worked herself into a cold fury. It’s not obvious to those who don’t know her, but Stiles can _feel_ it in her energy, see it in the way her jaw flexes and her eyes fixate. She smiles pleasantly as she flirts with the pilot who is, according to Cora, equal parts horny and terrified.

            Not an uncommon reaction where Talia is concerned. Stiles can recognize it well enough after so many years with the Hale pack.

            Cora bumps his shoulder with hers and nudges her chin at the view from the window, “We’re going to storm the fortress, isn’t that your thing, Elf-lord?”

            Stiles doesn’t bother correcting her wildly incorrect class assumption. He shakes his head, “I’m more like a knight in shining tinfoil. Are we seriously about to invade a government agency?”

            “Please, we’re not _invading_ anything. We’re going to watch our Alpha make an entire government agency her bitch.” She pauses, her face softening, “And to get Derek and Laura back.”

            “That’s important, too.”

            “Hell yes.”

            From her place beside the pilot, Talia looks back over her shoulder and laughs just a little. They’re going to be okay.

 

\-------

 

            When they disembark, there’s a very irate looking man with an eyepatch and a leather trenchcoat waiting for them. His stance suggests leadership, even without the numerous S.H.I.E.L.D employees buzzing around him like bees in a typhoon.

            “Agent Owens, you want to explain what three unidentified civilians are doing aboard my ship?”

            Owens looks like he might wet himself until Talia tosses him a smile and a wink, motioning for him to get going. He takes the out where he can get it, leaving them to the irate cyclops in black.

            Stiles takes a steadying breath and puts on his most winning smile, preparing to bullshit like he has never bullshitted before, but Talia takes a step forward. Let it never be said that Stiles doesn’t know when to defer to his Alpha, in all of her infinite asskicking.

            And oh, what an asskicking it will be. She hasn’t even turned on the Alpha voice and most of the agents in the hub are staring up at her, awed by something they can’t quite identify. She’d told him once, jokingly, that it was ‘animal magnetism’.

            Eyepatch Dude doesn’t look terribly impressed, but he’s sure that Talia’s going to fix that, too.

            He glances over at Cora to find her bouncing on the balls of her feet, glancing around at the myriad pieces of equipment contrasted by sweeping patches of wide open sky. It’s fascinating and unusual, and Stiles would probably be just as taken in if his brain weren’t hyperfocusing on exactly what types of things could happen to his boyfriend in a flying science lab.

            “Stiles?”

            He looks back at Talia, shaking off the uneasy roiling in his imagination, and sees her brow creased in concern. “Do you think you and Cora could find the others for me? I’m having a little talk with Director Fury.”

            “Ah, yeah. Totally. That’s a can do kind of thing, boss.” He throws her a double thumbs up, and she rolls her eyes.

            “Don’t break anything.”

            “I am 78% sure that I can handle that.” He grins, and Cora drags him off through the automatic doors, headed for Joss Whedon only knew where.

 

\------

 

            After a while of walking down hallways, weaving by confused S.H.I.E.L.D personnel and finding no trace of Derek and Laura, they come to a split in the path. Stiles knows what Cora’s about to say before she even opens her mouth.

            “You’re not going to Scooby Doo me, Cora. We’re not splitting up. That is a bad idea. Very, very bad.”

            “Come on, Stiles. You’re a civilian. They’re not going to shoot you.”

            “I am an _unidentified_ civilian aboard a top secret government assault ship. _No one will hear me scream._ ” He makes grand, emphatic gestures with his hands, but Cora still seems unimpressed.

            Cora is always unimpressed, unless she’s being bribed with cash or baked goods. Or kicking his ass at Halo, that always seems to keep her interest.

            Right now, she’s inching backwards, like she’s about to bolt off and leave him behind. He knows this because she does it _every time_ they go running back in Beacon Hills. The first time she’d pulled it, they’d been tiny, and he’d been forced to find an area with decent acoustics so the rest of the pack could hear him hollering for Derek.

            “Cora, _do not do the thing._ ”

            “What other option do we have?”

            “You could sniff them out.”

            She arched the Eyebrow of Judgement, “Really? This entire place smells like warm electrical chord, metal, and gun oil. It’s like being in a giant computer room, and it washes out anything organic. If I could pick up a trail, that’d be great, but if they came through here, then it’s faded. We’re splitting up, Elf-lord. You take the high road.”

            He glances up at the catwalk above them, but the ladder was either a long way back or is still a long way ahead.

            “What do you want me to do, shimmy up the drainpipe?”

            “That way, genius. Go that way.” She points down the hall straight ahead.

            “And what if someone stops me, huh?”

            “Hit them with your insta-roofie spell.”

            “It’s a _sleep_ rune, it requires body contact, and **_ew_**.”

            “So bullshit. You’re good at that. Tell them you came with your mommy and now you can’t find her. Cry a little. You’re like the king of the deceptive little shits, you’ll be _fine_.”

            “...So what are you gonna do?”

            “The same thing I do every night, Pinky,” Cora grins, baring sharp and dangerous fangs, “Hit things.”

            And like that, Cora is gone.

            “Great. She’s gone.” He stands at the intersection for a moment, debating and drumming his fingers against his thighs before giving up with a growl. He calls, “Your mom said not to break anything!”

            He takes off down the remaining path.

 

\------

 

            As luck would have it, Stiles is the first one to stumble on Derek and Laura.

            As Murphy’s Law would have it, they’re on the opposite side of a heavily reinforced wall of glass, in what looks like some kind of medical bay. The panel next to the glass says Observation 3, and Stiles isn’t sure who got stuck in Observation 1 and 2. Laura is strapped down with some expensive-looking metal restraints, no doubt high tech. Someone is going to miss those when she wakes up and demolishes everything in the room.

            Derek, it seems, has already broken his restraints, and is sitting on his cot in lotus position, eyes closed and trying to breathe deeply. He’s trying to maintain control.

            Derek has woken up chained to a cot in an unfamiliar room, no doubt surrounded by the smell of sharp medicine and industrial cleaner. There’s only one thing that has _ever_ meant to werewolves, and it sure as hell isn’t a cozy welcome.

            He must have torn himself free in a fit of panic before forcefully calming himself down--Stiles can see the rapidly healing marks on his wrists and ankles. They took his shirt and shoes, hooked him up to some kind of monitor, the chords to which are now dangling limply.

            He woke up to white ceilings and white walls in a _fish bowl_ with his older sister still out cold and, for the most part, unresponsive. He woke up _alone_ , and Stiles knows what that means to Derek, knows how he hates it.

            Biting his lip to keep from shouting and alerting any nearby personal, Stiles pounds on the class to get Derek’s attention. The were looks up with a start, choking a little on a deep breath in, and his eyes go from quietly terrified to a flood of relief.

            Stiles sees him forming his name before a shaky smile forms on his lips. His ears can’t pick up anything through the thick window. He shakes his head. Derek taps his ear and lowers his hand over his chest, this time tapping twice. He mouths,   _I can hear your heartbeat._

            Now there’s an equally dopey smile on Stiles’ face.

            He glances around, looking for some way to get him out, but there’s no obvious path but the door across the observation room. He motions to it, but Derek is slow to look and turn back.

            He shakes his head. No dice. He makes a motion that Stiles doesn’t understand, but it looks difficult. The drugs are still affecting him.

            Stiles pounds the glass again, just to recapture Derek’s attention, and splays his hand flat against the glass. He mutters, “Come on, big guy.”

            Derek obliges, eyes fixed on the center of his palm as he stumbles off the cot and toward the divider, covering Stiles’ smaller hand with his own. For once, Stiles doesn’t feel the need to grumble about Derek’s giant hands or superior height. He pretends that he can feel the warmth, the answering heartbeat through the panel.

            They stay like that for a few moments, studying each other and breathing slowly, before Stiles glances at Laura, jerking his chin at the other cot.

            Derek goes to check her bindings, apparently heavier than his had been, and applies steady pressure to crack the things without injuring his sister. There must be something wrong, because suddenly Derek jumps like he’s been electrocuted.

            His shoulders bunch up as if he’s preparing to attack, and Stiles is once again smashing his fist against the window. It is definitely a bad idea to have Derek go Mortal Kombat on his sister’s shock collar.

            Derek turns, faster this time, and the fear is back in his eyes again.

            They’ve been taken, and Stiles is here, too.

            And he’s on the _wrong side of the glass._

            He braces himself like he’s about to charge at the paneling, and Stiles panics. “Hey, wait! No! Hey, no, Derek. Aw, christ.”

            Without any semblance of dignity, Stiles proceeds to pull the dumbest face he can think of, followed by a quick succession of silly expressions. _See, look, no need to panic. If I can afford to be a dumbass, you can afford not to rearrange your skeleton!_

            Derek gives him the all-too familiar Dipshit look, full eyebrow tilt and everything, as if it’s absolutely incredible that Stiles is capable of being this bad at life.

            Stiles feels as if he’s been challenged.

            He makes moose antlers, pulls out his best duck lips, crosses his eyes and sucks in his nose. Derek is laughing so hard he needs to plant a supporting arm on the cot by Laura’s hip. Big improvement.

            Stiles pauses, waiting for Derek to open his eyes and focus again before _mashing his face_ against the window and blowing what may well be the world’s biggest, wettest raspberry against the glass.

            His lips are going to be so numb.

            About halfway through his lungful, he hears the sound of someone clapping which is weird, because Derek’s got one hand on the cot and one covering his eyes.

            This is what one might call _raspberrius interruptus._

            His gaze slides sideways, but his lips are still vacuum sealed to the glass.

 _Tony fucking Stark_ is applauding his mad self-humiliation skills. This is new. And possibly one giant crazy dream. He pulls away from the glass with a wet _‘pop’_ and manages a weakly amazed, “Holy shit.”

            “I get that a lot.” Stark’s teeth are shiny white and perfectly straight. He smiles like the world is one big joke, and he has the punch line keyed into his smartphone.

            “No fucking kidding you get that a lot, you’re responsible for, like, every worthwhile technological advancement in the past twenty--oh. Oh, hey, wait. No, Derek, not the bitchface.”

            Derek has officially dropped fang and popped claw, and that is definitely not going to help them right now.

            Tony whistles, low and impressed, and the man on his other side--because of _course_ there’s another guy witnessing this entire trainwreck--adjusts his glasses. “That’s new. Do you suppose he’s a mutant? Maybe a genetic hybrid? I hear they’ve been making leaps and bounds with DNA.” He pauses, a wry smile on his face, “It really is different from this side of the glass.”

            They’re looking at Derek like he’s a test subject, like some exhibit at the zoo, and suddenly Stiles is a lot less happy to be meeting the pop culture deity and his friend. “This happens often?”

            “Only when they find a new kid on the block. Like your friend there, and his girlfriend. I heard they took out a few of the Doombots we missed on the first sweep.” Tony smiles, “You an intern?”

            An _intern?_ Seriously? Do interns typically act like jackasses around here, because that would be a program he wouldn’t mind applying for. Outside of that, he’s not particularly impressed with Stark’s dismissal of Derek and Laura’s unwilling captivity.

            He thought the man was more of a free-spirited, _kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment are bad_ kind of guy. Especially after getting penned up in the Iraqi desert for three months.

            “Yeah, no.” Stiles cocked his hip, planting one hand on the jut and jacking his free thumb at Derek. He did a remarkable impersonation of Talia when he was called upon. He channeled pissed off authority figure pretty well, “These new kids? The one having the panic attack? That’s my boyfriend. And the one you’ve got wired to blow is his big sister, Laura. And let me tell you, no electroshock therapy is going to keep her ass down when she wakes up and comes after whatever morons decided to interrupt our brunch. Hell hath no fury. I know. I’ve used the last of her shower gel.”

            Stark seemed torn somewhere between impressed and concerned, pointing at Derek like there was some other dude snarling at them through the window. “That’s your boyfriend.”

            “Yep. I’m one lucky guy. So do you think you could...I don’t know...return to me the children you have stolen?”

            “Are you quoting Labyrinth at me?”

            “You have no power over me.”

            Definitely more impressed than concerned, now. The other guy is laughing openly, turning away from the observation panel to look Stiles over. “Aren’t you a little young to be in a committed relationship?”

            “...Why does everyone assume I’m twelve? Sure I’m not built like The Rock over there, but I’m in pretty decent shape.

            Derek throws his shoulder against the glass, and the panel shakes in its frame before seeming to distribute the impact.

            Glasses jumps a little, but seems to decompress quickly, doing some serious yoga breathing as he glances back at Derek. "Tranquilizing humanoid rage machines with fangs and claws and bringing them, against their will, aboard your very expensive flying base of operations. Historically, that's never ended badly."

            Stiles nods vigorously, “Yes! See? _He_ gets it. So what do you say I take them back to their mom, and everybody goes on with their lives with the same amount of holes they woke up with this morning?”

            Stark smirks, “It’s not my call, kid. You’ll have to talk to the Director about that. I don’t run this particular piece of machinery--though I could certainly _improve_ it if they’d just let me--”

            “The Director? I’m guessing that’s Eyepatch? Fury?”

            “That’d be the guy.”

            “Talia’s talking to him now.”

            Stark makes a notable pause, eyebrows sliding down like he’s been abruptly presented with a complex new riddle to solve. “Talia? Talia...Talia…”

            “Hi, Tony.” Talia’s voice is both amiable and commanding as she clicks down the walkway in her heeled boots. Her sweater is flaring behind her dramatically--Fury _wishes_ he could have her coat-tail game--and she has, in her hands, an industrial fire extinguisher. A cadre of S.H.I.E.L.D agents is buzzing around her, but she doesn’t seem to be paying them any mind.

            “Hi...Talia? I know you from somewhere.”

            Her smile is brilliant and only a little bit intimidating this time, “I was wearing a lower cut top.”

            “Tequila Talia!” Stark snapped his fingers, beaming as if he’d solved one of the great mysteries of the universe. Stiles gagged on air. He knew Talia was an active, healthy woman, but he didn’t need the specifics on all of his mother-in-law’s one night stands.

            “Stiles, baby, if you could step aside…?”

            He scrambles to get out of the way as Talia strides right up to the glass, her hips swaying, her face completely blank, and _rams the extinguisher_ through the reinforced window.

            “Derek, hon, do you think you can get out through there, or should I widen it a little?” She asks the same way she might request comments on her latest cookie recipe. Let it never be said that Talia Hale is not equal opportunity sugar and violence.

            “That’s fine.” Derek says, “But what about Laura?”

            “I’ll get her.” Stiles steps forward, the glass crackling and crunching under his Converse. At the edge of the hole, he eyes the rough edges speculatively, and Derek reaches out, overlapping their arms so that the glass digs into his skin instead as he guides Stiles through the opening.

            Stiles startles at the soft, “Watch your head”, but otherwise he’s fine. Derek sets him down on the other side and watches him bounce on the balls of his feet twice before popping up a third time to peck his cheek.

            He scuttles over to Laura’s cot as Derek mutters back and forth with his mother, asking an undoubted volley of questions about whether they were hurt and whether they had a death wish and how they could _really_ be that stupid.

            Stiles reaches out a curious hand to poke at the nearest cuff and yelps at the surge of electric energy. “Not cool!”

            “Stiles?” Talia calls, “Are you all right?”

            “I’d suggest getting him out of there. Those things are built to fry, and--” Stark goes tongue-tied when Derek _snarls_ at him, this time completely audible with the divider bashed in.

            “So you put them on my daughter?”

            “Not me. I was totally uninvolved.”

            The S.H.I.E.L.D operatives who have, up to this point, been pulsing like a mass of agitated gnats, quiet down when Director Fury joins them outside Observation 3.

            He casts his gaze over them all, glancing briefly at Stiles on the other side of the glass, shaking out his sore fingers, before looking back at Talia. “You couldn’t wait for me to get the codes?”

            “I wasn’t exactly confident in your reassurances.”

            “I thought it might be a professional courtesy.”

            “You kidnapped my kids and tied them down with electrified restraints. That doesn’t seem so courteous, now does it?” She turns away from him, easy as ‘case closed’, and calls to Stiles again.

            From the other side of the partition, Stiles watches the Director rub his temples and side-eye the shaky-looking lab tech tapping him on the shoulder. He turns his attention back to his Alpha.

            “I’m fine, seriously. I’ve got this. My hot plate’s been shocky all month, so I got Deaton to teach me this great insulation trick.”

            “ _Instead_ of letting me buy you a new hot plate?”

            “You realize that someday all of you have to let us grow up, right? And buy our own appliances?” He lays his hands on the first cuff, repeating Deaton’s process to the best of his ability. After a few moments, there’s a fizzle and a pop, and Stiles is dancing in place, “I am an actual genius. Christ, I love me.”

            “What do you think wedding registries are for?”

            Stiles circles to the other side of the cot and prepares to repeat the process, “You mean I’m not allowed to just put down arcade machines?”

            Derek rolls his eyes, “I’m not even thinking about marrying you without a coffeemaker on the registry.”

            Another pop and fizzle, another cuff down. Stiles motions for Derek to come closer, then gestures to the first cuff. Derek goes about cracking the sucker open. “You know you looove me.”

            Stark is watching all of this with the bewildered sort of amusement typical of all newcomers to their family circus, but his friend has joined Fury and the labcoat in looking over the file. This is probably a scientific breakthrough.

            They’re going to need to burn those results.

            He moves on to the ankle restraints, and makes quick enough work of them, Derek following behind, circling his sister like clockwork. Pop, fizzle, crack, screech, and Laura is coming to.

            “Son of a _bitch_ ,” She growls low in her throat, “What hit me?”

            “Seven nerf darts filled with military-grade bedtime juice, apparently.”

            “Oh, good. Stiles is here. Definitely not dead and gone to heaven.”

            “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome. I love you too. It’s not like you gave everybody a heart attack.”

            He watches her abs activate and fail, unable to lift her upright due to the sedatives. Fortunately, that also means she can’t make good on her aggressive whining when Derek picks her up like a ragdoll and starts feeding her back through the window.

            A few startled S.H.I.E.L.D personnel help Talia haul her out. Derek and Stiles are close behind her. No one is sad to be out of that antiseptic hellhole.

            “Excuse me,” A powerful voice booms down the walkway, “I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the glass.” Lo and behold, Captain America is double-timing it straight for them, Cora hot on his heels, trying to catch his attention.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Safety Steve. Mind your feet, keep your hands inside the vehicle, and cover your cough.”

            “Are you done, Tony?”

            “Never. You’re just so wholesome. I have to swoon. Bruce, catch me.”

            But Bruce is busy.

            The Captain doesn’t seem deterred, even with Cora Hale tugging at his arm, “Uh, sir? Captain? Excuse me?”

            “You’ll understand that this seems like a hostile situation. Director?”

            “Why don’t you ask _her?_ ”

            He motions to Talia, who levels the blonde with another winning smile, “Captain, with all due respect, I will hit you with a face full of Halon gas if you try to get between me and my children. Who you kidnapped. On a school night.”

            “Kidnapped?” He glances at Cora who is now aggressively prodding him in the side.

            “I _told_ you there was evil afoot!”

            “Dude, you quoted _Spongebob_ at the First Avenger?” Stiles is almost offended by Cora’s lack of game.

            “Spongebob? The cartoon about the sea sponge? I haven’t seen that one yet.” The man honestly sounds harassed, as if he’s trying as hard as he can to get caught up with all of the latest children’s cartoons, which is equal parts endearing and really, really sad.

            “It’s all right, Rogers. They’re clear.”

           The look on Talia’s face is eerily reminiscent to Peter’s ‘Damn straight I’m right, I’m _always_ right’ expression, and for once Stiles can clearly see the family resemblance. It’s terrifying.

            “Now that that’s settled--someone want to explain this?” Fury eyes them all over the top of the folder. Stark’s companion is lifting his glasses and blinking, like he’s not entirely sure his eyes are relaying the right signals to his brain. The lab tech just looks _done_.

            “What,” Stiles says, all false cheer, “You mean you’ve never met a werewolf before?”

            The lab tech’s eyes look like they might actually pop, now, because apparently seeing superhuman DNA and jumping straight to ‘werewolf’ isn’t a thing.

            “Werewolves don’t exist, kid.” Stark laughs.

            “Neither do giant green rage monsters and Norse gods, but you’ve got them popping in and out of Main Street every other weekend.”

            Glasses musters a weak, ‘Hey’, but Stiles is undisturbed.

            “That’s interesting,” Fury interrupts with a deadpan that suggests he’s not really interested at all--which is surprising because, hey, werewolves, “But I was talking about our friend Derek’s genetic match to one Anthony Edward Stark.”

  
  



	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thanks to the people from the Sterek Campaign Chatzy, without whom this would not exist. 
> 
> Special thanks to Bes and 5T1L35 for being an inspiration. And a microwave. Fred will always love you.
> 
> And another special thanks to [thatworldinverted](http://thatworldinverted.tumblr.com/post/77929983714/) for what was quite possibly my first fic rec. :)

There weren't a lot of people lining up to give testimonials as to Tony Stark’s responsibility. In fact, there was a far larger list of people who would claim the exact opposite. Before his kidnapping and subsequent change of heart, it hadn't been unusual for him to get hammered and motorboat women at charity events.  
  


One might say that judgment hadn't really been his forte.

  
But if Tony had picked up anything from his father before the old man died, it was to wear a condom. The last thing any of them needed was for Tony to knock some girl up and bring home _another_ kid for Howard to ignore. Or a media scandal.

  
In fact, illegitimate fatherhood was pretty much the only media scandal that Tony had managed to avoid up to this point. So really, hearing not only that he _had_ a son, but that said offspring was _over the age of eighteen_ and had _never come to his attention_ was fairly surprising.

  
Once the initial chaos dies down, and Tony’s indignant sputtering has been overridden, Fury directs them all to the bridge’s conference table, where Stiles sits with his knee pressed tight to Derek’s and Cora shamelessly ogles Steve’s muscles as he folds himself into the chair.

  
Talia settles Laura on Derek’s other side, brushing her hair from her face gently before taking her own seat. She settles in the chair not unlike a queen filling out her throne, long legs crossed and arms in a commanding position. She seems open and relaxed, but there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that she could launch herself from that chair and into someone’s jugular in startlingly little time. “Well? Where do we start, Director?”

  
“I’m going to guess somewhere around conception, Alpha Hale.”

  
“Did you want intimate details, or were you looking for a summary? I didn’t think you’d be interested in the whole story, but…”

  
The slender woman in the cat suit just beyond Fury’s shoulder snickers softly, and the slightest bit of tension goes out of more than one set of shoulders.

  
Stiles smiles a little, tapping Derek’s ankle with the side of his foot. “I think I speak for all of the younger generation when I say, ‘No thank you.’”

  
Talia smiles, a smooth widening of the lips with a curl at the end, the way she does whenever one of her children says something clever. “Spoilsport.”

  
“Tony and I met while I was traveling. We got drunk, we slept together, and ten months later, I had Derek. It’s really not that complicated. Unless you count the drunken debauchery that preceded the actual event? I’m told I’m indescribable in a wet tshirt.”

  
“Mom!” Cora looks scandalized, as if she hadn’t been fetishizing a spandex-clad war veteran just seconds before, “ _Ew_. We’ve all heard that story _more_ than enough times, thanks.”

  
“This is a story you’ve told more than once?” Tony asks, obviously a bit disoriented. His standard one-night stands have never been appropriate bedtime stories, and if he’s remembering this particular encounter correctly, he’s surprised it didn’t burn their ears off.

  
Indescribable indeed.

  
“I’m open with my children about everything, including their fathers. We’re pack, after all. They ought to trust their mother.”

  
“Fathers?” Agent Hill looks mildly impressed.

  
Talia’s smile gains more teeth, “I like to hunt for ideal mates to ensure strong children. A good time doesn’t hurt.”

  
Laura shifts in her seat, and someone milling in the periphery has the decency to shuffle over and offer them some coffee. Derek asks for three sugars, studies his older sister for a moment and adds, “She’ll take it black.”

  
“Like her soul.” Stiles jokes, and Derek kicks him under the table. Laura pats his hand in thanks.

  
“And I never heard of this because…?”

  
Talia blinks at the billionaire seated across the table, as if she’s having trouble lending logic to a word of it. “Did you need to know?”

  
He frowns. “There has to be something you want. You ended up _here_ , in the city, didn’t you?”

  
That’s about when Derek gets where this conversation is headed, and after a few hours of government sedation and kidnapping, he is in nowhere _near_ a good enough mood to deal with this.

  
“Are you fucking _joking_? Stiles, Cora, and I all go to college here because the schools offer scholarships, and the curriculum is solid. We were out for _brunch_ when you clowns experienced critical perimeter failure and a robot in a _cloak_ crash landed in the cafe. Laura and I tried to help and got fucking _tranqued_! **_That’s how we ended up here._** ” Stiles places a hand on his arm, because Derek looks as if he might haul off and punch Iron Man in the face, and nothing good ever comes of punching Iron Man in the face.

  
“We don’t _want_ anything, except for _off_ this flying shithole.”

  
Laura’s eyes might be sparkling a little, because it’s not often that Derek gets angry enough to yell at people, or to speak at length to anyone who isn’t Stiles. One of the bridge personnel, probably an engineer, makes an indignant noise, and Cora extends her middle finger in a display of delicate grace and well-practiced flippancy that Stiles has always admired. Hale women do everything perfectly. Hale men are endearingly awkward.

  
Tony Stark looks as if he’s been bitchslapped, and Talia doesn’t bother to scold her son. She was pretty invested in her stack of Nutella pancakes. He shakes his head, “Listen, kid. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that everybody has an angle.”

  
Derek snorts, “Yours just happens to be directly up your own -- ”

  
“Baby.” Talia interrupts, her eyes reddening just slightly. It won’t do to get any more worked up. His mother can handle it, Derek knows. It still chafes at him, but he peters off and leans into Stiles, who smiles and shrugs a little. _What ya gonna do?_

_  
_“I don’t get it,” Tony says, gesturing at Derek. “If this -- ”

  
“Derek.”

  
“If _Derek_ is my -- ”

  
“Our.”

  
“ _Our_ kid, then why -- ”

  
“Didn’t I tell you?”

  
Tony’s eyebrows wing upward, as if to say _yes, that._ Talia laughs, raising one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Should I have?”

  
“Are we talking about moral hypotheticals? I’m horrible at those.”

  
“I can attest to that.” Steve says.

  
“No one asked you, Captain Tightpants.”

  
Stiles starts a bit in his seat when he realizes that the peculiar expression Tony levels at the first avenger is dead on Derek’s _you have displeased me cease your bullshittery_ face. It makes him snicker a little, and Agent Hill looks at him like he’s the lunatic with the gate key to the nuthouse. “Nothing. It’s cool. I’m good.”

  
Derek makes the face at him, and he has to hold his breath to keep from losing it.

  
Talia sighs, “Tony, did you have fun?"

  
“I always have fun.”

  
“Damn, mom.” Laura rolls her eyes, “Pick up a magazine now and then.”

  
“With _me_ , Tony. Did you have a good time?”

  
“Yeah. It’s fair to say that.”

  
“Well, then we both got what we wanted, didn’t we?” She gestures across to him. “Orgasms.” Her hand draws in, indicating herself, and then Derek. “My baby boy.”

  
Stiles scrunches his nose a little, because he knows that Talia is independent and brilliant, and he knows how selective she was when it came to the fathers of her children. He knows the stories behind them all, but the way she explains it makes it seem so… _contract law._

_  
_And that’s about when the staff member comes back with several hot cups of coffee, and one cup of cider. It’s been a long enough day without accidentally caffeinating Stiles.

 

\------

 

Derek’s apartment isn’t exactly the standard college student fair, grad student or otherwise. The Hales are loaded, through old money and Talia’s more recent and lucrative ventures. Stiles has never ascertained whether it was an Alpha thing or a Talia thing, but it feels safe enough to assume a little bit of both.

  
The walls are mostly exposed brick, decorated with family photos and movie posters, courtesy of Stiles and his contagious obsession with pop culture. There are a few plants hung from the pipes overhead, and the lighting is warm, but not overly bright.

  
The majority of the furniture is sleek and modern, offset by mismatched bookshelves stuffed to capacity and occasionally littered with scraps of colored paper and cartoonish bookmarks. The overall scheme is otherwise spartan, unless you count Fred.

  
In the center of the living room, across from the flatscreen oh-so-generously donated by Derek’s uncle Peter and the gaming console purchased solely so that Stiles can kick his ass on the weekends, sits Fred.

  
Fred is something vaguely like a couch. Fred is huge, overstuffed, and so impossibly patched-up with various fabrics and patterns that it’s nearly impossible to tell what color it was originally. (The answer is mustard yellow.) Derek loves Fred more than he probably would his firstborn, and any attempts to get rid of the couch have been met with threats and violence.

  
Stiles is just as attached to the couch as Derek. He’s the one that pointed it out as they drove by the curb where Fred had been freshly abandoned, and he’d been the one to help Derek load it into the Jeep and carry it up to his brand new apartment. It had been something just for them in the midst of all of the uncomfortable newness, and until Stiles joined him in New York, it had functioned not unlike a treasured stuffed bear or a worn photograph.

  
There was no way for Derek to look at Fred and not think of Stiles, flushed and laughing, collapsing against a freshly-Febreeze’d arm with a 100% illegal beer in his hand, toasting to Derek’s future ability to support his ass.

  
There are a lot of memories in this horrid ugly couch, and this is probably going to be another one. Derek is laid out, shoulders pressed and sinking into the armrest opposite the door, as if he’s watching for some other threat. His legs are spread just enough for Stiles to slot himself awkwardly between them, tangling their legs together and drawing Derek’s wrists into his lap.

  
The wounds disappeared shortly after the restraints were off, and the pain just as quickly, but Stiles is still careful and attentive as he rubs circles into the soft flesh.

  
“So?” He asks quietly. “Are you gonna go?”

  
“It didn’t sound like an optional invitation when my mother explained it.”

  
“You know how she is, Derek. She’s the Alpha, yeah, but she’s also your mom. She wouldn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to.”

  
“She talked to Pepper Potts and arranged a _play date_ with my father. That’s what she called it. A play date.”

  
“Well, I mean, he did miss out on your very best years.”

  
“My best years, huh?”

  
“Oh, definitely. You may be hot as fuck now, which is fine and dandy, but I would not trade big-eared, smooth-talking, awkward as fuck tweenager Derek for all of the Doritos on the planet.”

  
“Why do I keep you? You suck at this.”

  
“I suck plenty of other things, too. Hear I’m pretty good at it.”

  
“I’m trying to be serious, here!”

  
“So am I! Do you know how many bananas sacrificed themselves to the cause?”

  
Derek covers Stiles’ face with his palm, and Stiles dissolves into a brief fit of giggles, removing his hand and crawling over to rest his head against Derek’s shoulder. “I still love your ears. Even if they don’t get cable anymore.”

  
“Something is _wrong_ with you.”

  
“You’ve known that for years, babe. Just like you’ve known Tony Stark, corporate tool was your dad. You rolled with it and you’re going to keep rolling with it. Give it a shot. If all else fails, you can throw him out the window. He’s Iron Man, he’ll survive.”

  
“That’s only in the suit. Without it, he’s just a squishy, annoying human. Like you.”

  
“Oh, honey.” Stiles grins, pushing up to look down into Derek’s face, his eyes glowing bright gold and amethyst in turns. “There’s _no one_ like me.”

 

\------

 

As it turns out, Derek couldn’t throw Tony out a window anyway. The glass runs from floor to ceiling, the only exception being the massive balcony with Tony’s personal landing strip, and while it looks interesting, he’s not quite up to playing into the man’s ego at this point.

  
Both of them are painfully awkward as Tony goes through the motions of a typical tour of his living space and a few more public areas of Avengers Tower. Derek appreciates it when he tries to apologize at the end, offering a beer, or an entire forty, or whatever it is that gives werewolves a kick, but he has to turn the offer down.

  
The mixture required to ‘give him a kick’ requires a certain set of supplies, and usually involves Stiles in the kitchen, plugging up the sink and pretending he’s in an episode of Breaking Bad. He’s not sure if he’s comfortable teaching the former arms manufacturer how to compromise a werewolf’s natural healing, or if he’d even manage to articulate the measurements correctly.

  
After a period of awkward chatting, Tony gives up all pretense, lifts his eyebrows and asks, “TV?”

  
“Please.” As long as there’s background noise to drown out the uncomfortable silence, Derek feels like he might just survive this visit, and then he can tell his mom and Pepper that he tried. It isn’t that he doesn’t _want_ to know his father. He was fascinated by Tony’s accomplishments and exploits when he was younger, but after a certain point, anyone with a brain began to recognize that Tony Stark did not have a morally viable life.

  
Or a great deal of life expectancy.

  
Honestly, he was kind of a crazy death-seeking jackass, but hey, at least he wasn’t as bad as Justin Hammer. Derek could count on one hand people that set him on edge like the head of Hammer Industries. Three were dead, one in prison, and the last was related to him.

  
Almost as a reflex, a resounding growl fills the room, and both occupants seethe, “Fucking _hate_ that guy.”

  
Derek blinks, turning to look at his father as Tony does the same. “All right, kid. You can’t just leave it like that.”

  
“Leave what like that?”

  
“Everyone _knows_ why I hate Hammer. What’s your war story?”

  
Derek sighs softly and settles back against the couch, which is nowhere near as comfortable as Fred, but still not bad. He winces as the memory comes to him. “You remember a while back, before all of that shit with Ivan Vanko and the expo, Hammer did appearances at a few colleges?”

  
“Yes.” Tony drawls, as if this is no small point of contention. “I take it yours was one of the privileged few?”

  
“You need to check your definition of privilege.”

  
Tony lights up, leaning in for story time. “What, he blow up the classroom? Insult a transfer student? Give legal advice?”

  
Derek grins, hard and vicious. “Werewolves can hear it when people _lie_.”

  
Just like that, Tony is smiling like it’s Christmas morning, slapping him on the shoulder and demanding every sordid detail, and it feels undeniably as if his father is asking to hear about his day at school.

  
And oh, what a story it is.  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part of the story is in planning and will be written soon.
> 
> Keep an eye out for Let's Get Hammered!
> 
> Come request other misadventures on [tumblr.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> This all started when San informed me about my civic duty to write Derek as Tony's kid. Feels are imminent.


End file.
